


Five Times Jack Texts Bitty Over Winter Break (And One Time He Doesn’t)

by riverlight



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alcohol, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Texting, implied Shitty Knight/Lardo Duan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:59:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3119393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverlight/pseuds/riverlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Left to his own devices, Jack wouldn’t ever choose texting as a form of communication.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Jack Texts Bitty Over Winter Break (And One Time He Doesn’t)

1\. 

The note isn’t much, but like everything else Bitty does, it’s sweet and a little old-fashioned: a little slip of paper tucked neatly into an envelope, which Jack finds tucked into the outside pocket of his computer satchel. “Jack,” it says, in Bitty’s neat slanting writing, “thanks for all your help this semester! It means a lot, seriously. See you in January!” He’s signed it Bitty, which is kind of funny to see in writing, but nice, too. “Huh,” Jack says out loud, startled, and the lady next to him looks at him curiously, but then his flight begins to board, so he puts it out of his mind.

Jack doesn’t figure out that the note goes along with the cookies until later, when he’s unpacking his duffel and feels something lumpy tucked neatly between his sweaters and his good suit for Christmas Eve dinner. There’s another little note taped to the outside of the bag: “Jack, hope these made it through customs okay! See you in January. ERB.” Bittle’s drawn a little smiley-face next to his name. 

The idea of Bitty baking for him makes Jack feel simultaneously warm and a little anxious. He’s not sure what it means that Bitty made him cookies: does Bitty make cookies for everyone, or just him? Is there some reason Bitty’s making him cookies now? Is there some etiquette for what you do when a guy on your hockey team bakes cookies for you?

At the very least, it deserves a thank you, Jack figures, so he takes out his phone and thumbs out a text to Bittle. “I’m surprised your cookies got through customs Bittle,” he writes. He can’t figure out how to put the comma in, but Bitty’ll know what he means. He hits send and puts the phone on his nightstand before going downstairs. His mother is making chicken and gravy in honor of his first night home. 

It’s actually nice to be home. His mom wants to know all about his classes and his friends and whether he’s been dating anyone, and his dad wants to know about the team and their last game against Yale, and they want to tell him all about what they’ve been up to, too: the gala his mom’s working on to raise money for Action Contre la Faim, the hockey classes his dad’s been running for low-income kids in Cartierville and Hochelaga. By the time they get to dessert, they’ve moved on to the family update portion of the evening: his Aunt Béatrice’s recent surgery, his cousin Olivier’s computer business, Mémé Camille’s new beau. 

It goes on longer than Jack likes, of course, but finally he can make his escape. “Sorry, I have to do some reading for my history class,” he says, apologetically, and his dad gives an approving nod. “Nice to have you home, honey,” his mother says, and gives him a kiss goodnight. “Sleep well.” 

He doesn’t sleep, of course; it’s only 9 pm, and he’s too wired up yet. In the end, he does read a bit, just a little, a few pages. And has one cookie, because they’re Bitty’s cookies and Bitty’s cookies are amazing. It’s all right, he figures: he’s got ice time scheduled with his father in the morning, he’ll be working it off. 

There’s a message from Bittle on the phone. “Oh, good, they made it!” Bitty’s typed, with one of his weird little text faces. “Enjoy. Merry Christmas, Jack.” 

“Thanks Bitty,” he types. “Great cookies as always. Merry Christmas.”

The response comes immediately. “（＾_＾）” A happy face? Jack thinks. A smile? Probably. “Night,” he texts. 

He turns out the light and goes to sleep. 

 

2\. 

It was Shitty who started the tradition of the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team text chain, during winter break their sophomore year. “Yooooooo, boys,” he’d written, at first, 10 pm one Friday night. “Shitty, 10 / racist dudes, 0, this was some epic shit,” and the resulting text message chain went on for like seventeen messages, if Jack recalls right; he actually had the text thread saved until his phone fell into the pond during the Boating While High Incident That Shall Not Be Mentioned (™ Shitty, 2014). In any case, Jack blames Shitty; left to his own devices, Jack wouldn’t ever choose texting as a form of communication, but it took on a life of its own, and he can’t _not_ participate since he’s the captain.

Which is why when he’s headed home after drills with his dad that when his phone buzzes he pulls it out of his pocket instead of ignoring it like he otherwise might. It’s Shitty. “What’s that song Bits sings?” he’s asking. Shitty has figured out both punctuation _and_ capitalization; Jack really probably should learn to use his damn phone.

“Problème?” his dad asks, glancing over. 

“Non, Papa,” Jack says. “Pantoute.” Then, because he can’t speak French but type in English, says: “a friend—you’ve met him. Shitty.” “Bitty likes a lot of songs” he texts back, because really, how on earth is Jack supposed to know?

His dad wrinkles his brow. “Oh?” 

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Forward, number 42?” 

His dad visibly thinks about this for a moment. “Made a goal in that game against Quinnipiac, your first year?” he asks.

Jack nods. “Yeah,” he says. “He lives next to me, we’re pretty close.” 

“Mm,” his dad says. “Right. Listen, do you have a present for your Aunt Béa and Uncle Paul yet? We’re going over to their house tomorrow for dinner.” 

“Yeah,” Jack says, trying not to sigh. “A photography book from Boston I thought they’d like.” 

“Pas pire,” his dad says, nodding. “Paul will like that.” 

“Yeah,” Jack says again. “Good, okay.”

By the time they get home, Shitty has sent Jack another four text messages, which read in order: 1) “Can you ask him?” 2) “Jackkkkk are you there” 3) “Jack you know the one it goes halo halo” and 4) “Jack come onnn I made a bet with my sister”—which, okay, Jack can’t figure out what on earth kind of bet Shitty is making with his sister that involves the kind of songs Bitty sings, or why Shitty can’t just ask him himself, but okay, he’ll ask Bitty. 

“B-I-T-T-L—,” he types, to pull up Bitty’s number, but somehow instead of showing the text-message screen his phone shows the “calling number” screen. Criss, Jack hates technology. But Bitty picks up before he can hang up. “Hey,” he says, and hopes he doesn’t sound annoyed.

“Jack!” Bitty says. “Hi.” He sounds cheerful. “How’s it going?” 

“Bittle,” Jack says. “What’s that song, the one you like?” For some reason, his heart is pounding, which is ridiculous; why does he feel anxious? 

Jack can hear Bittle’s confusion over the phone, practically. “Uh,” he says. “I don’t know? Beyoncé, probably? Oh, or Taylor Swift!” 

“It goes ‘halo halo,’ or something,” Jack says. Mostly he doesn’t listen to music much except a couple of country artists he saw once at a festival in grade twelve, but he’s apparently heard enough of Bitty’s music by osmosis that this sounds familiar. 

“Oh!” Bitty says. “Yeah. ‘Halo,’ by Beyoncé. It’s great, I can send you a link to YouTube if you want, or—well, maybe your phone doesn’t have internet? I’ll send you an email or something.”

Jack’s phone buzzes with an incoming text. He pulls it away from his ear to look. It’s from Shitty. “You. Me. Skype. Yes?” it says. Jack puts the phone back to his ear. “Thanks, Bitty,” he says. “Got to go. Bye.”

Jack sets his phone down so he can fish his laptop out of his luggage and gets it set up. It connects to the wifi on the first try, but as he’s loading Skype he realizes he’d probably been a bit abrupt. He hits the call button again. 

“Hey, Bitty,” he says, when Bitty answers. 

“Why, hello again, Mr. Zimmerman,” Bitty says. He sounds playful, and his drawl’s out in full force. That happened over summer, too, but Jack didn’t realize it happened so quick. 

“Shitty wants to Skype,” Jack says. 

“Okay?” Bittle says, and Jack can hear the confusion in his voice. “I mean, good? Say hi to him for me?”

“Okay,” Jack says. For some reason, talking to Bittle always makes him feel awkward. “I mean, I just wanted to tell you why I hung up before.” 

Bittle is silent for a moment. “Oh,” he says. “Okay. Thanks, Jack.” It sounds almost like a question, the way Bitty sometimes does.

“Okay,” Jack says, again. Then Shitty is ringing in on Skype, so he says hurriedly, “Bye,” and hangs up just in time to hit the “accept call” button.

“Jack!” Shitty says, cheerfully. He’s at his mother’s place, Jack recognizes the kitchen where he’s sitting. 

“Hey, Shits,” Jack says. Just the sight of Shitty’s face makes him feel calmer. 

“Jack,” Shitty says. “Jack, Jack, Jack, move the motherfucking screen, man, how often do I have to remind you of this? I can only see the top of your head.” 

“Oh,” Jack says, embarrassed. It’s not that he means to be bad with technology, he just—he can’t seem to stop. No matter how many times Shitty has tried to teach him to do things with his computer or whatnot, he can’t ever seem to remember. “Sorry,” he says, moving it. “That better?”

“Yeah, man,” Shitty says, contentedly. “So, you ask Bitty what that song is, or what?” 

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Halo, apparently. I don’t know why you couldn’t have guessed that, really.” 

Shitty ignores this and turns away from his screen. “Alicia!” he hollers. “I was right! You owe me twenty bucks!” 

“ _Shitty,_ ” Jack says, pained. 

“Sorry, man, sorry,” Shitty says, unapologetic. “I’ll buy you a drink when we’re back on campus, though, how’s that? Your share of the winnings.” 

“You don’t need to—” Jack protests, but true to the rules of their friendship, Shitty ignores this. “No, man, it’s fine,” he says. “You, me, no biggie. We’ll unwind, just the two of us, no pressure. I won’t let you get out of hand, and you can tell me all about why you’re so fucking moody lately.” Before Jack can respond, though, Shitty plows on. “Anyway. How are you? How’s Bad Bob? How’s your mom?”

“Uh,” Jack says. “I’m fine. My dad’s fine, we scrimmaged this morning. Mom’s good. She’s glad I’m home.” 

“You’re good?” Shitty says. “You need a knight in shining armor to come rescue you? ’Cause I’d totally do that if you want.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Shitty,” he says. “That joke was old freshman year. I’m fine, okay? Stop worrying.” 

Shitty grins. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, my friend,” he says. “I am a master of puns. Listen, I know this was short, but talk to you later, okay? I gotta jet.” 

“All right,” Jack says. He’s smiling, he can’t help it; Shitty’s always been able to do that, right from the first time they met, even when Jack was at his most fucked up. “Say hi to Alicia for me.”

“Will do, my man,” Shitty says. “Bye.” 

“Bye,” Jack says, but his computer’s already giving the little ding that it gives when a Skype call is ending. 

“I kind of want to know what the bet was,” he texts to Shitty, after a moment. 

“No your eally dontt” Shitty writes back, immediately, and Jack deciphers it and grins. 

“I really do,” Jack pecks out, and then goes to shut his computer, at which point he catches sight of the cookies Bittle made him. They’re sitting right there on his desk, and Bitty’d put them in two layers of ziplocs, but even so Jack can smell them. They’re making his room smell a little like the kitchen of the Haus. “PS,” he adds, after a moment. “Bitty made me cookies.” 

He doesn’t get Shitty’s reply till later, curled up in bed after dinner and then a movie with his parents. “!!!!,” it says, and it takes Jack a moment to figure out what Shitty’s talking about. Oh, right. Cookies. 

His phone buzzes again. “Of course he did,” Shitty says. “Boy loves baking, Jack.” 

Which, uh. Yeah, Jack knows that. It’s kind of hard to miss. 

“I know that,” Jack texts, but Shitty doesn’t reply. 

 

3\. 

It’s nice being home, but it’s also odd. His parents seem to have shifted into this weird mode where they’re basically letting him live his own life and not expecting him to follow their rules anymore, so that he can go to bed when he likes and borrow the car without telling them where he’s going and eat in his room, but at the same time they seem to really want to spend time with him, which is strange. There’s dinner the first night and a movie the second; the third night he’s on his own because they’re at one of his mom’s charity things, but then after that there’s some kind of family time every day: buying and decorating the Christmas tree, an afternoon with his cousin Léa’s two toddlers, a trip out to Cartierville to play with the kids his dad has been coaching, a trip out to his Aunt Charlotte’s cottage on Lac Saint-Pierre to go snowshoeing. 

It’s nice, but it’s also exhausting, and by the time they get around to the actual Christmas part of Christmas, Jack’s secretly relieved. They still have to do stuff, but at least now it’s just the three of them and Jack’s Mémé, so it’s pretty quiet. There’s Christmas dinner, and then presents, and ‘midnight’ mass at 10:30 pm, all the things that make it feel like Christmas, all the familiar family rituals: tiny cups of coffee after dinner in his mom’s delicate special-occasion teacups, their golden edges gleaming in the candlelight; the way his dad always slips him a little extra spending money tucked into a battered cardboard box that he reuses every year, as if the fact that it’s wrapped will fool anyone; his Mémé’s quavering old-lady voice singing Christmas carols next to him in the pews at St.-Michael. Jack has felt a little anxious all break, a little off, but for some reason on Christmas day he feels smoothed out, calmed, the perpetual worried hum at the back of his mind muted. It’s nice. 

“You look happy, baby,” his mom says, smiling, in the car on the way home, and Jack’s surprised to realize he is. He wouldn’t say he’s _unhappy,_ most of the time—he has his family, he has hockey, he has good friends, what’s there to be unhappy about?—but he wouldn’t necessarily say he’s happy, either. But right now he’s warm and full of good food and pleasantly buzzed from the after-dinner coffee, and his dad and mom are holding hands across the gear selector, and when he finally had a chance to check his phone after church there was a string of Merry Christmas messages from the team. 

“Yeah,” he says, belatedly. “This has been a nice Christmas.” 

His mom twists around to smile at him. “I’m glad,” she says, and his dad hums in agreement and gives his mom’s hand a squeeze. 

But still, it’s a relief to escape to his room when they get home, to take off his suit and get under the covers, to turn out the light so he can pretend to sleep, which is really the only way to get any solitude when he’s home. He has a sudden pang of longing for his room at the Haus, with its old creaky floorboards and the window looking out over the roof and the yard; Shitty wanders into Jack’s space constantly, but it’s different, somehow, when it’s Shitty versus when it’s his mom and dad constantly knocking or calling up the stairs to ask him a question. His room at the Haus is his the way this room isn’t, anymore. 

Because the thing is, every time Jack comes home these days he finds it harder and harder as the days go on. It’s like he doesn’t fit here anymore, like he grew out of this house or this life or _something,_ he doesn’t know, but whatever it is, it’s exhausting. It’s like—it’s like his parents are still interacting with the kid he used to be, or maybe it’s the kid they wanted him to be, or maybe it’s the kid he’s supposed to pretend to be for the press and the neighbors and everyone who see him and knows he’s Bad Bob’s son—but whoever it is they’re seeing, it’s not him, and it chafes, makes him feel trapped. 

And the other thing is, it’s not like he’s better, not like he’s over his issues or whatever other term his therapist would prefer, but he’s getting there, he’s figuring shit out, he’s more settled in his skin than he was when he first went to Samwell. And when he’s here, it’s like his parents don’t even see that. His mom keeps darting glances at him when she thinks he isn’t looking, checking up on him, searching for some sign on his face of how he’s doing; his dad keeps asking probing questions about school, about whether his courseload is too heavy. 

It’s just—fucking exhausting, is what it is, having to pretend to be _fine_ all the time: nodding and smiling when his mom says, overly casual: “And you’re doing well, baby?” like her vague question is going to actually get him to open up, when she doesn’t know to ask anything important, not even about the classes he’s taking this semester. Or schooling his face when his Mémé asks the inevitable question about dating and his dad says, gruff, “Good, you don’t need the distraction of girls, not right now, eh, son?” and Jack has to nod and make affirmative noises: Ouais, Papa, c’est vrai, no time for girls, never mind that he sometimes wonders if maybe there’s another reason altogether why he hasn’t been interested in dating and it has nothing to do with girls at all— 

He can keep it under control, most of the time—can escape to his room, or take the car and go to the rink to take out his anger on the net—but, christ, sometimes Jack just wants to explode, let it all come boiling out: no, actually, Mom, it’s not that he has homework, it’s just that he actually hates the people at her charity galas; and by the way, Papa, he’s really truly sure he doesn’t want to play hockey in Montreal; and oh, did he not happen to mention that sometimes he thinks the way they handled the whole having-to-go-to-college thing was really shitty—

Thinking about that, though, is harshing his good mood, twisting him up inside again, so Jack breathes in and out, steadily, focussing on his breath, and pushes his mind to think about something else. “Try to focus your attention on another pattern of thought,” his therapist is always saying, so he pushes his mind back to a safe topic. They have a game next week: good, that’ll do. He runs through the Worcester Poly lineup, tries to visualize as much as he can of their last game. 

It’s not until his phone buzzes on his nightstand that he realizes he hasn’t responded to any of the texts that came in while he had his phone off all day. “Merry Christmas,” he types, backspacing over his phone’s attempts to send the text in all-caps until it somehow auto-corrects to the way he wants it. “We have a game next week.” 

When he gets back from brushing his teeth, there are two messages in reply. He reads Shitty’s first. “Next week can’t come soon enough, fuck. I gotta get outta here,” Shitty’s typed, with three exclamation marks and then a keysmash, which Jack figures is a pretty accurate summary. Jack had gotten just two text messages from him on Christmas Eve, when his family celebrates, instead of the normal Shitty stream-of-consciousness: “Fuckkkk dad won’t shut up about HBS” and “fuck caught me txting gtg” and—yeah. “Yeah,” he texts back. “I hear you.” 

The other text is from Bittle, and it’s nothing but a picture. Jack clicks the button to open, and for a moment can’t figure out what he’s looking at, but then the phone buzzes again. “Two words, Jack,” Bittle’s written. “Pecan pie. Tomorrow I’ll think about the game, but tonight is a night for pie.” 

And really, what can he say to that? Finally, Jack types out, “Sounds fair Bitty,” and then, feeling awkward, “wish I had pie,” because it’s true. His dad hadn’t said anything at dinner, but he’s said plenty in the past, and honestly, Jack just hadn’t wanted to risk getting a comment or even a raised eyebrow. 

His dad bounds upstairs and even with the new carpet Jack can hear his footsteps in the hall. He rolls over into the bedclothes so that his dad doesn’t see the light from his phone. Both Shitty and Bittle have texted back. “T minus 5,” Shitty’s written, and Bitty’s sent a series of emoticons that Jack puzzles over for a minute before realizing they’re meant to actually look like pie slices. “I’ll have to make a Welcome Back pie, then,” he’s added, with a smiley face.

“Sounds good,” Jack writes, and then, after a second, “Merry Christmas Bitty.” He almost doesn’t do it, because it feels weird, texting Bitty when he doesn’t text anyone else on the team except Shitty. Shitty’s his best friend so it makes sense, but if Shitty’s his best friend, what does that make Bittle? They’re friends, Jack thinks, but maybe there’s some weird text-message etiquette he’s breaking by accident, or something? But his therapist keeps telling him his instincts are good and he doesn’t need to second-guess himself so much, so he hits send. 

He turns his phone off before going to sleep, though. He’s got plenty of things on his mind; no need to add questions about text messages to that list. 

 

4\. 

Jack flies back to Boston on New Year’s Eve; his parents have their traditional party with current and past Habs, and anyway Jack doesn’t do the typical go-get-trashed thing, so there’s no reason he shouldn’t take advantage of the cheap flights, he figures. It’s not a hard journey—an hour in the airport, a little over an hour in the air, and then an hour on the subway and the shuttle out to Samwell—but he always finds traveling weirdly draining, so by the time he gets home all he really wants to do is crash on his bed and maybe watch an episode of Band of Brothers and go to sleep. 

He’s not in the door of the Haus five minutes, though, before Shitty bursts through the door from the bathroom, tackles Jack backwards onto his bed, shoves Jack’s head down into his pillows, and gives him a noogie: the Shitty Knight way of showing affection, or one of them, anyway. “Jack,” he says, “Jack, Jack, Jack. When’d you get back?” and then laughs at his own rhyme. It’s possible, Jack thinks, that Shitty’s a little high. 

“Like, a minute ago,” Jack says, grinning. “Hey, Shits. Good to see you.” 

“Right?” Shitty says, in apparent agreement, beaming at him and flopping over onto his back. “Fuck, I’m glad to be back.” 

“Yeah,” Jack says, because he is, too. “What’s up? I was just going to watch some Band of Brothers, want to join me? I’ll even let you curl up under my duvet.” 

Shitty grins. “Who are you and what have you done with the uptight Jack Zimmermann I know and love in a manly-yet-affectionate way?” he asks. “Look at you, man, relaxed enough to let me mess up your neat hospital corners.” 

“Real friendship,” Jack says, deadpan, and Shitty laughs. 

“Truer words,” he agrees, but he’s got that bouncing-against-the-walls energy he sometimes gets, and Jack can practically see his plans for a quiet evening go out the window. “No, no, you know what I was thinking?” Shitty says, leaning up onto an elbow to peer down at Jack. Jack’s double bed is just barely big enough to fit the two of them, but that’s never stopped Shitty before; Jack’s given up pretending to mind. “I was thinking after a week at home you might want to let off a little steam, and I totally promised you a drink.” 

“In other words, you want to get drunk,” Jack says, drily. 

Shitty pulls a mock-offended face. “Jack, my friend, I want to get _you_ drunk, there’s a difference.” At Jack’s raised eyebrow, he grins. “Well, and, yeah, I wanna have a couple of beers, when do I not, but it’s no fun without company, right?”

Jack doesn’t drink often; he doesn’t like the loss of control. Right now, though, the prospect’s tempting: after a week at home, the thought of unwinding sounds really, really good, actually. And none of the frogs are back, so they could go out, just the two of them, without having to worry about inviting anyone else, without having to worry about what anyone might see. 

Shitty must see the hesitation on his face. “Come onnnn, Jack,” he wheedles. “I mean, no pressure, or anything,” (and one of the reasons Jack loves Shitty is that Shits means it, he really will back off if Jack asks)—“but it’d be fun.” 

And—yeah, it would be. “One drink, ” Jack says, cautionary. “I’ve got ice time tomorrow,” and grins as Shitty leaps off the bed and does a victory dance around the room. “Just let me get my jacket, eh? Fuck, but it’s colder here than Montreal.”

He doesn’t mean to actually get drunk, Shitty’s comments aside, but they end up in The Grey Owl, which has good beer on tap and dim booths in back as if it’s any normal Wednesday instead of New Year’s Eve, and it just feels so damn good to be back at Samwell hanging out with Shitty that he figures, fuck it, he can take one goddamn night off. Just being back here makes all his worries unspool and retreat off into the back of his brain. 

Tomorrow’s gonna suck, but—whatever. Suddenly Jack doesn’t care. “Mr. Knight,” Jack says, formally, “I believe you owe me a drink.” 

One beer makes him feel warm and mellow and fine; two beers in he and Shitty are laughing so uproariously at one of Shitty’s stories about his sister that Jack’s abs hurt. Somewhere during beer three, it starts to catch up with him; while Shitty’s in the washroom, Jack steps outside to let the cold air clear his head a little. 

His phone buzzes with texts as soon as he steps outside, a sudden burst of reception: Holster, Holster, Ransom, Holster (road trip updates, and an announcement that they’re back), his mom checking to make sure he got in safely, Shitty (a message _from the washroom,_ what the hell), Bitty. “Someone please tell me I don’t need three rolling pins,” Bitty’s sent, via the group text. 

Jack flips his phone shut and goes inside. 

He doesn’t mean to, but he keeps thinking about it: he’s got less control over his own head when he’s drinking. Bittle baking him cookies, Bittle promising him pie. And he definitely doesn’t mean to say anything, but—well, one of the reasons he doesn’t drink around other people is that he says shit he doesn’t mean to say. 

“Would it be bad?” Jack asks, totally interrupting Shitty. “If I liked Bitty?” And then he has to drop his head in his hands, because, fuck, did he just say that out loud?

Shitty is, Jack is horrified to note, actually shocked into silence. “Shiiiit, son,” he says, after a moment. “Didn’t think I’d ever actually get you to talk about that.” 

“What do you mean?” Jack demands, lifting his head. “Talk about—wait, you _knew?_ But _I_ didn’t even know!” 

Shitty eyes him compassionately. “One,” he says, “boy’s got a crush on you that can be seen from space, Jack. Two, you’ve been flirting with him since last spring. I figured you were doing it on purpose,” he adds, “but I’m probably giving you too much credit, aren’t I?”

Jack stares at him. “He—what? No, he doesn’t!” He doesn’t even want to address—flirting, what the fuck.

Shitty groans. “Oh, man,” he says, and thunks his forehead against the table. “I need another beer for this conversation.” And, yeah, another beer sounds like a really, really good idea. 

The other reason Jack doesn’t drink a lot is that it doesn’t, in the end, help him forget much at all, so when he wakes up the next morning, he has a crystal-clear memory of Shitty’s kind eyes as he says, “Does he make you happy? Then it’ll be okay,” and “Honestly, Jack, you could do a lot worse,” the unflinching seriousness in his voice as he says “If you like dudes, you’re going to have to face this sooner or later, Jack.” Jack groans and buries his head in his pillow, because fuck. It’s really, really not that easy. 

He has to get out of bed eventually, though, in desperate need of a piss and some coffee. At least Bitty’s not back yet. 

He runs into Shitty in the kitchen. Jack almost ducks out the door again sans coffee, but, fuck, even he’s not that ridiculous, so he collapses into one of the kitchen chairs and rests his head on the table, waiting to hear what Shitty will say. 

“Jack Zimmermann,” Shitty says, thoughtfully. “Did you know you sound really Canadian when you’re drunk? Like, seriously.” 

Jack has to peer up at him. Shitty’s eyes are knowing, but it’s in that wise Shitty way where he knows shit that he’s not going to say. Jack feels his shoulders relax, just a fraction. 

“That’s because I _am_ Canadian,” Jack says, because that’s honestly as good as his retorts are gonna get, right now. He heaves himself out of his chair and pours himself a mug of coffee the size of his head before shuffling out of the kitchen again.

“Damn right you’re Canadian!” Shitty hollers after him, as if that makes any sense at all. “And check your phone!”

Jack gulps half his coffee and collapses back onto his bed. His phone’s on the nightstand, plugged in, though he doesn’t remember doing that. There are three messages he doesn’t really remember, either. 

The first is from Shitty, a grainy low-light picture of a note, scrawled on a bar napkin. Jack squints at it. “I, Jack Zimmermann,” it says, in Shitty’s messy handwriting, “am allowed to like what I like even if that means liking boys and fuck my dad (not in that way) because I should do what makes me happy. Signed—” and below that is his own neat signature. 

The second is an equally dim picture, the two of them a crazy blur of colors from the Christmas lights the bar still had up, looking drunk and exhausted and like they’re about to topple over, with a timestamp of 11:57. Shitty’s captioned it: “after a revlevationn like that i’m tottaly kissing u at midnite u fucker, u better get ready. happy new year!!!” Huh, Jack thinks. Now that he thinks about it, he has a indistinct sense-memory of Shitty’s mustache and beer breath, the mash of his lips against Jack’s. Jack laughs, because: Shitty. Seriously. 

The third is a message to Bitty, via the group text. “I think if rolling pins make you happy you should bring them,” he’s written. “You should do what makes you happy.”

Jack groans and pulls his pillow over his eyes and goes back to sleep. 

 

5\. 

“But seriously, though,” Jack says to Shitty, “what do I do, Shits?” They’re sitting on a bench in Library Quad, clutching coffees, waiting for Lardo (on Shitty’s part) and escaping the Haus in the hopes that nobody will come up and interrupt them (on Jack’s). 

Shitty buries his nose further into his scarf. “Fuck, if it gets any colder, we’ll be able to play shinny on the lake,” he says, ignoring Jack. 

“I’m serious,” Jack persists. His therapist keeps saying that when he’s really anxious he’s allowed to ask his friends if his worries are justified. “What if he doesn’t like me? What if he does like me but I mess it up? What if it gets in the way of the team dynamic?”

Shitty looks over at him and sighs. “Fuck, Jack. If I knew that, my life would be a lot simpler.” Which: fair. Jack figures there’s a reason Shitty hasn’t actually asked Lardo out. 

“Fuck,” Jack sighs. “This was a lot easier when I was ignoring it.” 

Shitty grins. “Right?” he says. “Things usually are.” 

But another thing Jack likes about Shitty is how Shitty will actually engage questions, even ones that were mostly rhetorical. Shitty kicks at the snowbank at their feet, thinking. Jack sits in silence and sips his coffee. 

“I can’t tell you what to do about it, Jack,” Shitty says, finally. “Be his friend, I guess? Anything else—” He shrugs. “You’ve got the interview with Providence this month, right? What you do about it kinda depends on that.” 

Jack grimaces. “Yeah, that’s the problem.” 

“Uh huh,” Shitty says, and laughs; it’s gentle, though, not mocking for real. He stands up. “Not that your deep emotional problems aren’t fascinating, my friend,” he says, punching Jack in the shoulder and slurping the last of his coffee at the same time, “but there’s Lardo, so I gotta fly. See you later?” 

“Yeah,” Jack says, and stands, tossing his own cup in the trash. “Dinner tonight?”

“Yep,” Shitty calls, over his shoulder. 

It’s too cold to sit outside without a reason, but Jack doesn’t want to go back to the Haus just yet; instead he wanders over to the Student Center to check his mail (one package, a book about American Revolutionary generals that hadn’t arrived in time for actual Christmas) and sits at one of the little tables in the atrium to think. He _doesn’t_ know what’s going to happen next, is the thing, and it’s a big step from admitting he likes guys to admitting he maybe likes one particular guy, and thinking about anything beyond that makes his chest feel tight and panicky. 

Being his friend, though—that, Jack can do. He hopes, anyway. “Hey Bittle,” he texts. “Hope you’re doing well. It’s really cold here… bring lots of sweaters back.” 

There, he thinks. Friendly. Perfectly within bounds for a friend or for a captain, either way. 

“Thanks, Jack,” Bitty texts back, immediately. “Goodness, I am not looking forward to that! Brrr.”

“Sweaters help,” Jack writes back. “And jackets. Just saying.” 

“Right,” Bitty replies. “Layers. Got it.” 

“Yup,” Jack types. “Okay Bittle see you soon.” 

Okay. He can do this. Jack tugs his toque down and ducks out into the cold. 

(It really is freezing; he hopes Bittle brings a better jacket this year.)

 

1\. 

Jack knows immediately that Bitty’s back because of a) the crowd of hockey players hovering in the kitchen doorway and b) the smell of cinnamon and butter in the air. His heart leaps a beat, and he takes a quick deep breath, to calm it. 

Bitty’s not actually in the kitchen, though, when he checks; there’s a pie on the counter, and a crowd of frogs waiting for it to be cool enough to cut, but no actual Bitty. Jack tromps upstairs. 

Bitty’s door is open. “Hey, Bittle,” Jack says, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe and poking his head in. “So, you’re back, eh?” 

“Jack!” Bitty says, jumping and clutching one hand to his chest, surprised. “I didn’t hear you there!” He’s shoving something soft and brown under his pillow, and he looks embarrassed; Jack pretends not to see. “And, uh. Yeah. Just got back.” 

“Good, then,” Jack says. He shuffles his feet a little. “Listen, uh, I gotta go take off these boots before they get snow everywhere,” he says. It’s an excuse; it’s not like a little water will possibly matter to the floors of the Haus. But he hates not knowing what to say. 

“Okay,” Bitty says. His cheeks are a little flushed. “Cool. Thanks for saying hi.”

“Uh,” Jack says. “Any time,” and backs out into the hallway. 

But he can probably do better than that. He thinks about just texting, but—honestly. Bitty’s right there. “Si t’es game,” he says to himself, out loud, because that’s apparently his life now, “tu peux faire mieux,” and turns around. 

“Hey,” he says, sticking his head back around Bitty’s door. “Good to see you. Glad you’re back.” 

Bitty flushes a little. “Thanks, Jack,” he says. “Me too.” 

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> This is for wursul.tumblr.com, in the 'Swaesome Santa 2014 exchange. Wursul, hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thanks to lavishness for beta, and for getting me into this marvellous fandom in the first place. The one particular Shitty bit is for you: you'll know the one. *g*
> 
> And thanks to the mods for their patience—this was meant to be a pinch-hit, but took as long as normal fic, despite my best efforts. Thanks for putting up with me, eh?


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